


i keep her beauty clean from rust

by Zana Todd (captainofthegreenpeas)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Creepyshipping, Dark Sansa, F/M, Mariticide, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, Power Couple, Revenge, Sansa is as dark as Sansa gets, Trigger Warnings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, gruesome twosome, references to rape and domestic abuse, references to scars, references to torture instruments, the holy trinity of unholiness: art murder and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 07:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/Zana%20Todd
Summary: A freshly widowed Sansa Stark, changed by war, claims Petyr as her prize.





	i keep her beauty clean from rust

_To these I turn, in these I trust-_

_Brother Lead and Sister Steel._

_To his blind power I make appeal,_

_I guard her beauty clean from rust._

The night before the battle, Sansa dreamed she was cursed.

Ice sheared through her wings as surely and as cleanly as her father’s neck.  She wandered each circle of the seven hells, unable to fly. After Joffrey in the first circle, Sansa was not sure if each demon was kinder than the one before or if she had grown dull to cruelty and looked at crumbs like a feast. Cersei gave her grave worms to eat, and washed down her own platter with blood. Sansa watched her shrink into the distance as Ser Dontos ferried her across the river. Petyr gave her a flower of ash and offered her a crown for her hair of hellfire. The ash scattered and the hellfire guttered in the presence of Ramsay.

 

Sansa looks at him now. For a moment, that’s all she does. She looks and she thinks that every sword in the Iron Throne couldn’t match the power of holding his life in her hand.

She’s had many sleepless nights to plan her revenge. She’s thought of having him flayed, of peeling back each fleck of skin, starting with those sharp greedy hands. She’s thought of cooking him in his own brazen bull, of roasting his red muscles on a spit and serving it to his dogs. A brazen bull is too private a death, his screams would only make her long to see his face, his eyes bubbling and spitting as he cooks. Nobody must know of what pretty Lady Sansa, calm Lady Sansa, civilised Lady Sansa has done to the man she swore to love and obey. Father always said, the man who passes the sentence swings the sword. No hand will kill him but hers.

 _Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make sure your hands are clean._ Petyr’s words whispered to her in her dreams. At first, during her marriage to Ramsay, she hated how Petyr’s voice came to her in her dreams. _My lover. My traitor_. Sansa doesn’t hate his presence in her head now. Now she has started to forget where his words end and her thoughts begin.

 

After the battle, once she decided to indulge her lust for Petyr, she thought of making Ramsay watch them, to show him he had no power over her, that rape and torture could not take pleasure away from her, that she could cut him out of her body and seal up again, that she was never even his, that Petyr was hers all along. She decided against it, in case Ramsay played the voyeur out of spite.

 

The torchlight caresses her face, painting gold across the planes of her skin. Her pupils bloom as large as a lover’s. Those eyes were never so round for him. Sansa looks her captive up and down, lingering on the flare and swell where rope meets flesh.

 

Sansa has never whispered to Ramsay, but her voice is as soft and gentle as his. She understands now, why he never shouted or screamed in her presence. Taking a life is such an intimate thing; the climax can only happen once. The last puff of air is so quiet, you must be very careful not to drown it out. Her words brush him, the way his hands would taunt her skin with the pain to come.

 

_Disappear. Disappear. Disappear._

Her fingers rest upon the iron bars, delicate with curiosity, like a child touching the cage of some exotic animal, seen for the first time. She flinches at the first scream, her lady’s training urging her to look away, this is not her song, this is not a song at all.

 

Yet she leans in.  

 

 _There was a demon fluttering in my soul_ , Sansa thinks, _a creature that I never knew was there. Petyr unhooked the cage and set her free, and I don’t know if the thrill of this birth is joy or horror._

 

Her lips part as the first dog locks around Ramsay’s jaw, that mocking mouth ripped away with a crunch and crack. Her tongue brushes roughly and thickly against the roof of her mouth as the second dog joins the feast she has chosen to host. The ground soaks up the quickly scattering drops of blood and Sansa feels the tight tang of thirst. Long threads of blood, black in the gloom, stream down the melting candle of his torso. His fingers flex and her toes curl. Her rapist is dissolving into an oozing sack of red, and she sketches it carefully in her mind, capturing each drop and shine and slump as gracefully as anything she drew for Septa Mordane. She must not neglect an inch, her memory must hold every part of it.

 

Sansa turns away from the deflating piles of flesh. Her heart beats faster even as his own stops. She is greedy for bliss. The cold endless night makes her skin burn, the sun isn’t gone, it is flaring through her blood and consuming her faster than Ramsay’s dogs are consuming him. The smile that comes to her is unexpected and sordid, no lady’s smile, she cradles it to her heart greedily, never to share it.

 

She hunts him down, her hand snatching out to grab his own and pull him behind her. Petyr stumbles for only a step before realising her needs and matching her pace.  If only they could fly, to reach their nest faster, impatient to love. The bedchamber door yields as easily as Ramsay’s jaw, and when their lips collide Sansa sees the first burst of blood in her mind again. Petyr cups her face like a miser cradling overflowing handfuls of coin, tightly balancing each piece. _Men are like fruit_ , Sansa thinks blithely, even as her hands conquer each button and lace of his clothing, yielding further spoil.

_He spins and burns and loves the air,_

_And splits a skull to win my praise;_

_But up the nobly marching days_

_She glitters naked, cold and fair._

This was her father’s bedchamber, once. She was conceived in this bed, this bed that Theon Greyjoy wanted for himself. Roose slept in this bed, and Ramsay after him. It is a conquered bed, marked by war, still stained in peace _. It is mine. It was for Robb, but it is mine. I have made it mine. I make it mine now. I will hold it as mine, this scarred bed, this used owned bed we have usurped, my horror and I._

Petyr traces the seams of each of her scars, thick shrinking lines across the breadth of her like ripples on a godswood lake. When he presses the length of his scar against her chest, their scars seem to lock together, like vertebrae into a spine. She traps him with her arms and legs, and he traps her, their limbs moulding into one white writhing spider, crouched in a web and hungry, with one black eye and one red.

It could be night, it could be dawn, it could be day when they finally join. Petyr quenches his thirst on her for hours, tongue curling and sliding until she’s overflowing, wet slipping down her thighs. Sansa feels it like a river that’s washing Ramsay out of her, cleansing her after the baptism of blood, the feast she served her bestial husband’s beasts.

 

She read of the Valyrian triumphs during her lonely days in King’s Landing, but she never understood the sweet savour until now. When she mounts Petyr, they make a triumph of their own. She battles the rising memories of Ramsay’s hands and teeth and hips, she smothers them as viciously and desperately as she’d try to fight him off, her body refusing to let him take her. Her enemies are dead, their still bones cannot reach through the earth to this tower, to touch her conquered field or take the prize that’s writhing between her legs. If Father could see her now, riding Littlefinger with proud lust, toasting with skin and flesh upon his bed the fresh murder of her husband. In that moment, she can’t think what shame is, she feels so unlike herself.   _I will be the greatest Stark the world has ever seen. The world will sing the songs I write_. _Robb was the Young Wolf, but I will live to be the Old Wolf._

 

“You’re mine,” she pants into Petyr’s ear. “Not Mother’s, not Aunt Lysa’s, _mine_. Only mine. Swear it, _swear_ it, swear it now.”

“Yours,” Petyr groans, and the victory pushes Sansa over the edge. She screams to gods unknown, nails scratching at his back as if his flesh could save her from her famine.  

“Fuck me,” he begs her, embrace snatching her breath. “Love me, hold me, fear me, cherish me, redeem me, fight me, _pervade me_.”

“Everything,” she promises him as he follows her into ecstasy. “ _Everything there is_.”

 

_Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this:_

_That in good fury he may feel_

_The body where he sets his heel_

_Quail from your downward darting kiss._

**Author's Note:**

> Poem and title taken from The Kiss by Siegfried Sassoon. Sassoon was actually an anti-war poet, but this poem makes me think of lust and obsession and bloodlust. Also death + sex= happy Zana Todd. Yay for ominous interpretations!


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